


The Prisoner

by DieAstra, Jamie_Douglas



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Torture, Complete, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-23 09:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieAstra/pseuds/DieAstra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Douglas/pseuds/Jamie_Douglas
Summary: When his old SAS mate Reggie Payne visits Wayne Manor unexpectedly, Alfred is troubled by memories of a traumatic experience. Happens during Season 1, Ep. 17.





	1. War Dog

**Author's Note:**

> DieAstra wrote the bookends (the first and last chapters) for this story. They include references to the plot and dialogue of episode 1.17 of Gotham. All other chapters were written by Jamie Douglas.

“So, Mr. Payne, you were in the Air Force?”

It was an innocent question but Alfred didn’t like the direction the conversation was headed. Just a minute ago they all had laughed about that stupid snake story, when Bruce all of a sudden decided to get serious. Before Alfred could intervene, Reggie replied.

“Special Air Service... SAS. Best soldiers in the world, if I'm being honest.”

Alfred stared hard and unblinking at Reggie but he didn’t seem to get the message. Or didn’t want to.

“So that means covert missions?”

“That's right. Before a conflict, they dropped us behind enemy lines. We were quiet, precise, and deadly. We never lost a man and we always completed our missions. Except that once, I guess.”

Alfred definitely didn’t like the way this was going. Damn that Reggie and his loose mouth when he was drunk. Bruce was too bloody young to learn about these things. And if Alfred was honest with himself, he’d rather not be reminded of that particular time. No sir, thank you very much.

As nice as it was to reminiscence about old times, it was time to end this evening. Now.

“Yeah, well, that's enough of the old war stories, eh, Reg?”

“What one time?” Bruce never had learnt when to leave things well alone.

“There was a sandstorm. We got separated. Two of us were captured.” Neither had Reggie.

“You?”

Alfred could sense Bruce looking at him but didn’t return the look. He was afraid Bruce might see the darkness in his eyes. Instead he stared down at the table top. He heard gunfire in the distance. His fingers clutched at the stem of the wine glass.

“He fought twelve of them off before they cut him down. Didn't you, Alf?”

Reggie might as well have been twisting a knife in his guts. It would feel the same. Alfred took a deep breath and released it slowly. Tried to stay in control.

“I’m here now, aren't I? That's all that matters. All right, gents, while I have to say this has been absolutely lovely, I'd like to tidy up before I go to bed.”

After Bruce had said his good nights and left, Reggie still dug deeper into the hole in Alfred’s armor. He almost could hear it cracking.

“Why are you hiding from him what you really are, who you really are? You're a war dog, Alfie. You're a cold-blooded, lethal war dog, is what you are.”

“I found some fresh clothes for you, Reg. I folded them and I put 'em on your bed, and I've taken the liberty of packing you a lunch for your travels tomorrow. It's been really nice to see you, Reggie.”

His own voice sounded hollow to him but he found strength in the butler role. That’s what he was now. The past was the past.

“I see them, at night... when I'm alone. The faces... the faces of those we killed. Do you?”

“I don't have to look for them, Reg. They find me.”

And with that he all but fled from the kitchen. Screw the tidying. There was always tomorrow.

Alfred blindly stumbled up the stairs. He managed to hold it together until he reached his room. But as soon as the door was closed behind him the memories overwhelmed him. He gasped out loud from their intensity. Suddenly he was back in that awful rotten place, could smell the dirty air, could hear the screams of the other guy who had been caught with him. Felt the fear again of what they would do to him the next time they came.


	2. Corporal Pennyworth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this flashback, Alfred recalls his mission with the SAS in the Middle East.

1990, Operation Desert Shield. The border of Saudi Arabia and Iraq. Corporal Alfred Pennyworth and Corporal Reggie Payne each headed a four-man team, ready for insertion behind enemy lines. They were dropped low, no parachutes, and ran straight for the target, using the blowing sand as cover. The SAS had information from the CIA that an Iraqi stronghold was hidden in some nearby caves, guarded by about twenty men and their leader, Mustafa Awad. Awad had been at the top of both the British and American governments’ wanted lists for several years. Pennyworth and Payne’s mission was to blow the stronghold sky high, with everyone inside. They were well prepared and, with the advantage of surprise, expected to execute their orders with minimal difficulty. 

The only problem was, a scout had seen them coming. A boy of nine had been instructed to act like he was playing on top of a nearby hill, and to alert the Iraqis if he saw anyone coming—especially foreigners. At first, he thought the shadows moving across the sand were imaginary, but he rubbed his eyes and looked again and then there was no mistake. These men had pink skin and big guns, held out in front of them as they hurried along. Fadhil knew they were the enemy, and he wanted to help protect his people. He rushed down the hill and around the back of the soldiers’ hiding place, gave the secret signal, and was let in to tell what he’d seen. 

Alfred pointed to Reggie and then to his left, meaning that Reggie should take his men around the left side of the building which was not actually inside a cave, but adjacent to the mouth of one. He knew that the cave might pose a risk: more men whom they couldn’t see could be hiding back there, with a cache of extra weapons. Still, he ploughed on, leading his men around to the right side. Payne’s team would attempt to cut the Iraqis off at the back, hopefully before they could spill out into the cave, while Pennyworth’s would storm the front. The wind was blowing harder now, swirling the thick sand around in front of them, making it hard to see. Alfred wiped a hand across his goggles but nothing helped. There was nothing for it but to crack on. 

When Alfred heard Reggie’s low whistle signalling that his team was in place, he motioned for his men to attack. Shouting loudly, they broke down the door and started firing, knowing that Payne’s men would remain outside so they wouldn’t be caught in any friendly fire. But when Alfred ran into the shack and looked around, his heart sank. He could see no one. The Iraqi soldiers who had been there not five minutes before were nowhere in sight. It made no sense at all. Something was wrong. He opened his mouth to give an order just as the missing soldiers leapt out from their flattened shadows along the walls, stabbing at his men with their daggers. Two of them fell to the floor instantly, clutching their bleeding chests. His other two men opened fire, spraying the room with bullets. Only two or three of the Iraqis fell, and the rest started to shoot back with their own weapons. Alfred pressed further in, stabbing into the dark with his own dagger. He felt the blade slice into a man’s stomach, heard the gurgled cries of pain. Another soldier came at him from behind, grabbing him around the throat in a headlock. Alfred kicked up and back, sending the man sprawling outside the doorway, where he stayed when Alfred’s gunfire tore into him. On he pushed, shouting to his men to finish the job. The three of them succeeded in forcing the remaining ten Iraqis out the back door, where they ran into Reggie’s team. Payne’s men fought them at close range, taking out another three. When the rest began to run to another building a few feet away, both teams followed. 

Alfred was confident that they had them now. He concentrated on finding the leader, Awad. Squinting into the sandstorm, though, he could see nothing. Even the nearby building had disappeared, replaced by a moving vertical blanket of sand. He tried to keep his bearings, to maintain a straight path in the direction he’d been headed before the storm picked up. He could hear voices being carried on the wind, and thought one of them sounded like Reggie, but he couldn’t be sure. Was he heading toward the new hideout or was he leading his men away? Had the Iraqis split up and was Payne giving chase? Alfred had no way of knowing. They had agreed to maintain radio silence for the duration of the operation. He looked behind him and saw one of his remaining men—Alec—but Jimmy was gone. He shouted at Alec to follow him. For a few seconds, the wind shifted, and they could see a group of men in the distance. The Iraqis. Alfred didn’t hesitate. He fired on them, mowing down several. He was almost to the building, which he could now just barely make out, when he felt a searing pain in his stomach. His knees buckled and he fell, landing on top of his weapon. He struggled to his feet and fired again, but then everything went black.


	3. Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred awakes to find himself strung from a meat hook.

He was hanging by his feet from a meat hook suspended in the ceiling of a nondescript building. Half the blood in his body seemed to have flooded into his head and to be trying to escape through his ears, and there was a burning pain in his gut. He vaguely wondered how long he’d been there. The pounding of his heart in his eardrums muffled the voice of the man who was bending down, sticking his face close to Alfred’s, but he could just make it out. 

“Talk!” 

“Corporal Alfred Pennyworth. 25232301.” 

“I don’t give damn about name, rank, and serial number! I want to know where British forces are and when they planning to attack!” The man who was now shouting at him had a Middle-Eastern accent and a dark, scruffy beard. When Alfred failed to reply, the man punched him hard in the face. 

Surprised, Alfred cried out and tried to bring a hand to his nose but his hands were tied behind his back, so the blood just dripped onto the ground. Still, he said nothing. From his upside down position, he saw the man gesture to another man just behind him. This second man came closer, carrying a bucket of something. Seconds later, the icy water was splashing in his face, partly filling his mouth, which had been open so he could breathe, his nose being possibly broken. Droplets also sprayed onto his torso. Alfred started to shiver, his naked body unable to regulate its temperature. He remembered having been suffocatingly hot earlier, and now he wished for that feeling again. 

The second man had picked up a long iron bar and was coming at him again. Alfred cringed as the iron struck him across the ribs, probably cracking a few. He gritted his teeth to keep from shouting again. He wouldn’t give the bastards the pleasure. 

“Tell me!” the leader demanded again, but Alfred stayed silent. Awad nodded to the second man and moments later, the icy cold water was drenching the Brit’s face again. He sputtered and choked and tried to lift his head up, noticing as he did that his gunshot wound had been wrapped with some white fabric. An ugly red stain was seeping through it. They obviously didn’t want him to bleed to death before he could give them the information they wanted. 

“Again!” Awad shouted, and again the iron struck, this time across the top of Alfred’s head. His eyes started to blur, and then a blissful darkness descended.


	4. Not a Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred's worst nightmare is realized when the torture turns personal.

Slanted rays of sun seeped in through cracks in the building’s wooden slats. Alfred squinted against the glare as he awoke, struggling to best his emotions. He was still hanging upside down and his lungs felt so heavy in his chest, he could barely breathe. He was also starving, thirsty, freezing, in pain from multiple sources, and wondering how small a chance he had of making it out of this hell alive. He felt like crying, negotiating, begging. He felt like telling them everything they wanted to know. But he wouldn’t. And he didn’t know everything, anyway. The SAS had told him and the others only what they’d needed to know. When the heavy door creaked open, letting in a blast of searing sun, he set his teeth and steeled himself for another barrage of attacks. He wasn’t even remotely prepared for what came next. 

It was a different man today. This one was bigger, older, and meaner looking, and he was alone. As he closed and locked the door behind him, Alfred saw that he was carrying something in one hand. It was a dagger, with about a five-inch blade. The man stalked toward him slowly, his huge, scuffed black boots shuffling along the dirty floor. The long, stained white shirt that the man wore plunged open at the neck, revealing a thick chest of even thicker dark hair. He put the knife between his teeth and pulled the shirt off over his head as he came closer, tossing it onto the floor. The man’s arms were like tree trunks. Alfred cringed, thinking he was probably going to be doused with cold water again, but there was no water in sight. Now the brute was undoing his baggy brown pants and pulling them down. Alfred’s eyes grew wide. He was suddenly very awake. The naked man transferred the dagger to his right hand and stood directly in front of Alfred. He trailed the tip of the blade down Alfred’s body to his chin, then stopped. 

“You want to get down?” he said in a deep, quiet, but definitely not gentle voice. 

Alfred nodded vigorously, then immediately regretted doing so as he realized what his captor had in mind. No witnesses, no one to tell him that he couldn’t do what he wanted to do. That it was unholy. Alfred shook his head from side to side, desperately trying to negate his previous answer. The man had not waited to see what the Englishman wanted, however, and was already unfastening the bonds that held him suspended. The Arab wrapped one powerful arm around Alfred’s middle, mercilessly squeezing his bullet wound, and, as the last bond was freed, leaned the prisoner’s weight against his own body to prevent Alfred from falling directly onto his head. Instead, he slid down slowly, putting his hands and knees out as he touched the ground. Alfred was incredibly weakened but he scrambled as quickly as he could, trying to stand and shuffling in a crouch against the far wall when he found he could not. His head swam with dizziness and his heart was pounding so quickly that he thought it might give out. A combination of the effects of his inversion and a terror of what was going to happen to him caused him to retch but nothing came up. There was nothing rational that he could say, but he spoke anyway, repeating “No” over and over again in a whisper as the enemy came closer. 

The man bent down and grabbed Alfred by the shoulders and started to move him, to turn him around. Alfred summoned every bit of strength he had left—mostly gained from pure adrenaline—and got to his feet. He started to run but soon tripped and fell onto his face. The dark man grabbed him by the ankles and pulled Alfred towards himself. Alfred’s fingers clawed at the dirt-scattered floor, digging his nails in. His feet kicked out at his assailant, but couldn’t connect. Amid the sounds of his own guttural cries, his spirit sank. He continued to fight, but the older man was stronger. He was not going to be able to get away. He twisted his body from side to side, but the man’s grip was firm, his large, calloused hands unyielding around Alfred’s thighs.

The pain was intense, even worse than the throbbing behind his eyes. Within less than a minute the act was over, but to Alfred, the moments were drawn out, an endless stabbing agony. The discomfort in his cracked ribs was nothing now. He scratched uselessly at the floor, finally balling his hands into fists and biting his lip in an attempt to stop the screams that seemed to be coming from someone else. One of the man’s hands was in the middle of Alfred’s back, pushing him down. When he was finally released, Alfred didn’t move. He was too weak and broken to try to protect himself any longer. He lay there, cheek pressed to the dirt, breathing hard, listening and hoping that his tormentor would leave. Soon, he heard the door open and then creak closed again, and a lock click shut. 

Something wet was sticking his face to the now-muddy floor planks and at first he assumed it was blood. He wiped his face with trembling fingers and saw that the dampness was caused by tears that were still sliding silently down his now-grey skin, leaving a salty taste on his lips. After a few minutes, he heaved himself onto one side, groaning from the pain. At least he was no longer hanging upside down. He would live—for a bit longer, anyway. If he didn’t get some water and maybe some food soon, he wouldn’t survive more than a few days. The room was heating up again, reminding him how desperately thirsty he was. He was choking on dust and sand, trying to work up enough saliva to swallow. He braced himself with both hands on the floor and pushed up, trying to get his feet under his legs. After a couple of stumbling attempts, he got up and leaned against the wall. A thin trickle of blood ran down the back of one leg. Ignoring the horrible stinging in his ass, he scanned the large room for something he could use. 

Aside from the large hook in the ceiling, which he was unable to dislodge, and a pile of cut ropes too short to be of any use, he could see a small wooden stool, a large metal bucket, and not much else. Where was the iron rod that had smashed into his side the night before? They must have taken it away with them. Cursing, he shuffled over to the bucket and looked inside: no water. He picked it up by its thin metal handle and tilted it, turned it up over his open mouth, but there was nothing. Not a drop. It was heavier than it looked. No water was a crushing blow but perhaps he could use it as a weapon. It was all he had, so it would have to do. He set it down and limped over to what looked like a pile of rags—his clothes, or what was left of them. He thought about putting them on, but they were torn to shreds, deliberately. He was wondering how to break the lock on the door and planning his naked escape when he heard a noise.


	5. An angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Alfred is about to lose hope, someone unexpected pays a visit.

A second small squeaking sound from the direction of the door caused Alfred to throw his head around so sharply, he strained a muscle in his neck. His heart sped up. He ran like a caged mouse from one side of the room to the other, finally backing himself into a corner, the pail in his hand. He was a seasoned soldier and not afraid of much, but at this moment, he was terrified. His abuser could be coming back for more, maybe bringing some friends or painful implements with him this time. One thought, previously completely foreign to him, surged through Alfred’s brain: suicide. He would rather die than go through that again. A strangled sob rose up from his chest and he pushed it back down with a dirty fist. Be strong, man, he told himself. The door opened just a few inches and a cloaked figure squeezed through the crack and into the room, pulling the door closed again. He squinted into the beam of light that opened with the door. It was a woman—either that or a man dressed as a woman, God help him. The figure was wearing a niqab—a head scarf that covered everything except the eyes. The flowing garment seemed to float into the room, approaching Alfred quickly. About ten feet from him, it stopped. 

“I not be here,” a soft voice said. She—for it was a she—searched him with large, chestnut eyes, waiting for a sign. 

He nodded slowly, to show he understood, covering his genitals with the pail as he did so. 

She averted her eyes to a spot on the wall, then spoke again. “I do not like what…” She shook her head. “Here.” She held a bottle of some clear liquid out to him, set it on the floor, and backed away. 

He shuffled over to it, still holding the bucket in front of himself, bent over painfully and picked the bottle from the floor. He sniffed it and then lifted it to his mouth. After a couple of tentative drops, he recognized it as water and the sips turned to gulps. His throat was so dry, he had trouble swallowing at first but managed to get most of the liquid into himself. His hand was so shaky that about a quarter of the bottle splashed onto his chest and ran in a small stream over his filthy skin until it was soaked up by the dressing around his middle. When the bottle was empty, he held it up higher, trying to squeeze another drop from it, and was rewarded with two droplets that fell like rain from heaven onto his cracked lips. When he finally had to admit to himself that there was no water left, he remembered the woman, and looked at her. “More? Can you get me more water? Please?” 

She shook her head sadly, and turned to go. 

“No—wait!” He lurched toward her and she shrank back in fear. He held his hands up to show that she was in no danger. “I just want to thank you.” He looked into her deep brown eyes and said it again. “Thank you.” 

She nodded once, turned, and moved quickly to the door. Suddenly, Alfred realized that if she was going to go back out the door, he could, too. He summoned every bit of energy he could and rushed to the door, but she slipped through it and shut it again before he could make it. He fell against the door as he heard the heavy lock click, sliding down to the floor with his head in his hands.


	6. Human Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred hears the screams of one of his men and wonders how he can help him with no weapons and no clothes.

Alec. Alec. Alec. 

The name repeated over and over in his mind. Alfred couldn’t tell for a minute whether he was dreaming or awake, silent or speaking. He opened his eyes. He was curled up against the wall near the door. He stood up and tried to break the door down, hurling himself at it and pounding his fists on it, but it didn’t budge. Eventually, he gave up, wandered over to the overturned stool, righted it, and sat. He had to clear his head. Where was Payne’s team? And where was Alec? Had they caught him too? Was he alive or dead? He had to remember to try to find out. 

His chance came no more than an hour later, when Awad’s assistant, the man who had thrown the water on him before, returned. He held a gun in one hand and a basket in the other. Alfred didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he thought he could see a loaf of bread sticking up out of the basket. He licked his lips. 

The man followed Alfred’s gaze. “You hungry?” He grinned, a wide, gap-toothed smile. 

Alfred nodded, trying not to look too eager in case the man was planning to tease him by eating the food himself, in front of him. Luckily, the bread was for Alfred. The man tossed it toward him, seeming quite unconcerned when it landed on the dirty floor a few feet away from Alfred’s outstretched hands. He scrambled to the spot where it lay and picked it up, brushed a few spots of dirt off quickly, tore a chunk off and crammed it into his parched mouth. It was so dry, he started to choke and cough. 

“Slowly!” The dark-haired man laughed at him. He threw a plastic bottle filled with water and it hit Alfred on the chest. He grabbed it, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. The water tasted terrible, as though it were waste water or had had something nasty added to it, but he drank it anyway. When Alfred had finished the bread and water, the man took the bottle back and suddenly smashed his gun down onto the back of Pennyworth’s head. Then he left, chuckling as he locked the door behind him.

Alfred rubbed his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes from the pain. As they trailed down his cheeks, they left a trail of clean in the dirt that dusted his skin. He was wondering what he should do now when a piercing scream filled the air. It sounded like it came from somewhere quite close by. Alec? At the same time, the door creaked open again and the scream got louder. Alfred rushed to the opening—or tried to. He must have gotten a concussion from the pistol-whipping, because he fell to his knees as soon as he started to rise. He shrank back against the wall, assuming the man was coming back to finish him off, but he was wrong.

It was the woman who had brought him the water. His head and his ribs hurt so much that he didn’t care anymore if she saw him naked. He held a hand out to her and she came a few feet closer. “Please,” he begged, “help me.” His eyes searched hers, looking for understanding. 

She shook her head but came closer still. His vision was blurred but he could see that she was holding a pail. She set it down and pulled a wet cloth out of it, wringing it with both hands. Then she brought it to the back of his head and started to gently dab at the blood that was beginning to clot there. He winced and closed his eyes. She would not hurt him. Another stomach-turning scream filled the air and his eyes flew open again. “Tell me—who is that? Is that one of my men? Do you know?” He spoke as slowly and clearly as he could.

“Yes, British soldier,” she nodded sadly. 

“Where are they holding him?” 

She shook her head.

“Where is the British soldier?”

“Just there.” She pointed to the door. Alec must be close by. 

Alfred reached out to touch the woman’s hand. She jumped back, startled, and he removed his hand. “Sorry. Just… I wish you could help me, but I know they would hurt you if you did.”

His voice was so soft, she was not afraid of him. She went back to washing his head. The blood was sticky in his dirty hair. “I see through crack,” she told him, pointing to a slight warp in the wall boards. “It not right what they do.” She rinsed the cloth in the pail water and squeezed it out again. 

“What will they do if they find you here?” he asked. He was genuinely concerned for her.

She shrugged and raised the cloth to his forehead. Slowly, she wiped his face with the cool water, revealing tanned wrinkles and the beginnings of a beard under the mask of dust, sweat, and blood. He felt the ache in his head start to subside. He was sitting now, leaning against the wall as she bathed him. She cleaned his ears and throat and drew the cloth down to his chest. The dirty bandage around his middle had turned dark brown with dried blood, a few splotches of brighter red seeping through. She found the end of the wrapping and started to pull. He sat up higher to make it easier for her. Once the bandage was off, she wiped underneath it, being careful around the bruised and broken areas of skin. A couple of times, he sucked in a sharp breath or made a small grunt of pain, but for the most part, it felt good to have his wounds cleaned. This woman’s human touch and altruistic kindness restored a bit of his strength. He tried to formulate a plan—a plan to escape and to rescue Alec. 

The dark beauty turned her head to dip the cloth again and he studied her profile, and the curve of her body under the loose-hanging shroud. He knew he was, according to her culture, being disrespectful, but he felt an intimate connection with her now, and couldn’t shut off the response. She washed his shoulders and arms next, smoothing the damp cloth over his sore muscles. When she took his hand to lift his arm, he looked into her eyes. Deep chocolate pools stared back at him, until she blinked and looked away. The cloth moved to his thigh next, but she stopped abruptly and leapt to her feet. 

“Did you hear something? Are they coming?”

“No. You…” She was backing away from him as he looked down and realized he had an erection. 

He covered himself with his hands. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“I must go now.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

And then she was gone. He didn’t try to get out of the door again because he didn’t want his captors to find her helping him. He didn’t know what they would do if they caught her, but he knew it wouldn’t be good. Slowly, he took his hands away. The sight of his dying erection was a good metaphor for his predicament, he thought. As a prisoner, he wasn’t really a man anymore, but somehow, he had to find the strength to get Alec and get out of there.


	7. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Alfred find Alec? Will they escape?

Unlike the other flimsy metal bucket, the pail that the woman had left behind was quite heavy, as though reinforced with steel. Her ministrations had revived him, more mentally than physically. She had given him hope. Now he knew that one of his men—presumably Alec—was nearby, and was still alive. But he had to act fast. He rested for a while and thought. Some time passed before he heard someone approach. 

When the door opened again, Alfred was pressed flat against the wall beside it, pail in hand. Before the giant—his attacker—could turn around, the soldier smashed the heavy bucket down onto the back of the man’s head. He fell forward and landed heavily on the floor, face first. Alfred cautiously checked and, seeing that the man was knocked out, pulled the pants of the prone enemy down and off. If his female friend was watching through the crack in the wall, she might have wondered what he was going to do next. But escape, not revenge, was the only thing on Alfred’s mind. He shut the painful memories of the very recent past out of his head and pulled on the baggy trousers, hoping they wouldn’t fall off when he ran. He didn’t want to risk waking the man, so he didn’t bother with his shirt, but he pulled off the shoes and tried those on as well. Unfortunately, they were too large to be useful, so he threw them aside. Next, he searched both pants and shirt pockets and came up with a small amount of money and an I.D. card. He stuffed these into his pocket and reached for the pail. Would it help or hinder him, though? If only the man were carrying a gun, or even a knife. Alfred decided to forget the pail. After one last look around, he opened the door an inch and peeked out. Seeing no one, he pulled the door open a foot and stuck his head out. 

The sandy road in front of him was apparently empty, and he could see nothing moving at a distance. A couple of ATVs were parked outside a nearby shack, but their engines were off and no one was inside. Alfred ran quickly across, crouched against the back of the shed, and listened. After a few minutes, he could discern two distinct voices: one was foreign but the other belonged to Alec. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. He listened for a few minutes more, needing to be sure that others were not sitting silently inside. No one else spoke. He would have to chance it. Having ascertained that there was only one entrance to the small shed, he crept up to it. Now he wished he had brought the bucket. Glancing down, he saw a large rock and decided to use that. He threw the rock hard at the door, then ran back behind the shed. When the man inside opened the door to see what had made the noise, Pennyworth lunged at him, kneeing him in the groin and giving him a brutal chop to the throat at the same time. As the man sputtered and groaned, Alfred pushed him back inside, closed the door, and got his arm around him in a headlock. He tightened his grip mercilessly until the man stopped struggling and slumped to the ground. 

“Corporal!” Alec hissed. “Thank God!” 

Alfred registered his soldier for the first time. Alec was naked, just as he had been, and tied not to a meat hook but to a chair. He rushed over and worked at the bonds as quickly as possible. Soon, Alec was freed. “Get his trousers,” Pennyworth directed. “And check the pockets.” This time, they got lucky. Alec’s captor had a gun stuffed into the waistband of his pants. It still had a few rounds left. Alec handed it to his superior, but Alfred shook his head. “You keep it.” 

“But sir, you’re injured…” His eyes roamed over his corporal’s blood-streaked torso. The wound had opened up again. 

“I’ll be fine. Come on, we’ve got no time to chit-chat.” 

They exited quickly and ran for the cover of a large sand dune, hoping no one would see them in the swirling yellow dust. They were almost there when a crack like thunder whizzed past Alfred’s ear. Alec went down, crumpling into the ground like a sand castle that had been kicked over. Alfred kneeled beside him. He was still breathing, despite having received a shot to the stomach. Pennyworth took the gun, dragged Alec behind the dune, and then carefully looked out, pointing the gun in front of him. Another shot just missed him and he fired blindly into the sandstorm as he pulled his head back.   
Just then, the sounds of revving engines and more shots came from behind their position. Alfred turned to see two jeeps of British soldiers racing toward them. Reggie and another soldier jumped out and helped Alec and Alfred into the vehicles as the rest of Reggie’s men covered the escape with gunfire. By the time the enemy had gotten into their own vehicles and started them, the SAS team was long gone. A Blackhawk picked them up from a nearby clearing and they rose swiftly into the air. 

Alfred leaned back against the chopper’s vibrating metal wall and closed his eyes. He was safe, though not exactly in one piece.


	8. Unbearable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred returns from his flashback to the present, to find that it's just as dangerous.

Alfred finally gave into his urge to punch something. His fist blindly connected with the wall. The pain in his knuckles brought him back to his senses.

Slowly he returned to the present. His eyes stung from unshed tears when he blearily looked around. Taking in the room as if it was the first time he saw it. The commode, the bed, the book at the nightstand.

He went to the bathroom and started to fill a glass with water while looking at himself in the mirror. He saw bloodshot eyes. He barely recognized himself.

Screw it, he needed something stronger tonight, that’s what he did. He’d had only some of the wine, to keep Reg company, but didn’t indulge further because even with only his old mate being there he was always alert, always on the watch for possible trouble to happen.

But a stiff Scotch was exactly what he needed right now, otherwise he wouldn’t find any rest at all.

Not bothering to put up his braces again, he quietly tapped down the stairs. The house was dark save for a few lamps. That was when he heard the noise. It came from the study.

Alfred quietly opened the door and couldn’t believe what he saw. He switched on the light.

“You're stealing from us? You could have just asked me for money, Reg.”

“You don't know how hard that is, Alfie... do you?” 

Alfred let his hurt and anger show through when he replied.

“We gave you somewhere to sleep. We put food in your belly.”

“I'm in trouble. Real trouble. I don't need a lecture right now.”

Alfred went closer to the man. He barely recognized him now. Was that really his old mate?

“What kind of trouble?” 

“You don't want to know.” 

“Right. Well, you put the bag down and you leave. Now.” 

“Did you bring a gun, Alfie?”

Reggie almost was nose to nose with him when he asked that.

What? What kind of question was that? 

“No.” 

“If there was any other way...”

“Oh, come on... there's always another way, mate.”

Alfred really believed in that. Thomas Wayne had given him a second chance. Reggie Payne deserved one as well. Alfred was determined to help in any way he could. He was absolutely not prepared for the sudden sharp pain in his chest – for real this time.

“I'm so sorry.” 

Alfred barely heard it. The blood was swooshing in his ears and with a grunt he fell down, hard. He lay there helplessly and watched Reggie leave.

Endless minutes went by. He tried to move, to get up, to shout, but found he couldn’t. He barely could suck in a breath. The blood was bubbling in his throat.

He knew what that meant. This was it then. After all the battles he had fought he got stabbed to death in his own home. He’d never see Bruce grow up. Oh God, Bruce. Losing Alfred would be the final blow so soon after the death of his parents. It was unbearably painful to think of that. What would become of him?

Then suddenly Bruce was there, in his pyjamas. Calling for an ambulance. Trying to press down at the red stain on his white shirt. He’d never get that out in the wash.

Alfred was starting to get delirious and he knew it. Not much time left. He weakly managed to get up a hand and put it against Bruce’s cheek. He tried to convey all his love, all his hurt, all his regret with this one gesture. Then his arm fell back. He felt a tear roll from his eye.

“Alfred, Alfred, look at me... you're gonna be okay. Alfred, stay with me. Please. Alfred!”

Bruce’s desperate scream was the last thing he heard.

Then everything faded to black.

 

THE END


End file.
